'A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.'--_Solomon_.
William Guthrie was a great humorist, a great sportsman, a great
preacher, and a great writer. The true Guthrie blood has always had a
drop of humour in it, and the first minister of Fenwick was a genuine
Guthrie in this respect. The finest humour springs up out of a wide and
a deep heart, and it always has its roots watered at a wellhead of tears.
'William Guthrie was a great melancholian,' says Wodrow, and as we read
that we are reminded of some other great melancholians, such as Blaise
Pascal and John Foster and William Cowper. William Guthrie knew, by his
temperament, and by his knowledge of himself and of other men, that he
was a great melancholian, and he studied how to divert himself sometimes
in order that he might not be altogether drowned with his melancholy. And
thus, maugre his melancholy, and indeed by reason of it, William Guthrie
was a great humorist. He was the life of the party on the moors, in the
manse, and in the General Assembly. But the life of the party when he
was present was always pure and noble and pious, even if it was sometimes
somewhat hilarious and boisterous. 'If a man's melancholy temperament is
sanctified,' says Rutherford in his _Covenant of Grace_, 'it becomes to
him a seat of sound mortification and of humble walking.' And that was
the happy result of all William Guthrie's melancholy; it was always
alleviated and relieved by great outbursts of good-humour; but both his
melancholy and his hilarity always ended in a humbler walk. Samuel
Rutherford confides in a letter to his old friend, Alexander Gordon, that
he knows a man who sometimes wonders to see any one laugh or sport in
this so sinful and sad life. But that was because he had embittered the
springs of laughter in himself by the wormwood sins of his youth. William
Guthrie had no such remorseful memories continually taking him by the
throat as his divinity professor had, and thus it was that with all his
melancholy he was known as the greatest humorist and the greatest
sportsman in the Scottish Kirk of his day. No doubt he sometimes felt
and confessed that his love of fun and frolic was a temptation that he
had to watch well against. In his _Saving Interest_ he speaks of some
sins that are wrought up into a man's natural humour and constitution,
and are thus as a right hand and a right eye to him. 'My merriment!' he
confessed to one who had rebuked him for it, 'I know all you would say,
and my merriment costs me many a salt tear in secret.' At the same time
this was often remarked with wonder in Guthrie, that however boisterous
his fun was, in one moment he could turn from it to the most serious
things. 'It was often observed,' says Wodrow, 'that, let Mr. Guthrie be
never so merry, he was presently in a frame for the most spiritual duty,
and the only account I can give of it,' says wise Wodrow, 'is, that he
acted from spiritual principles in all he did, and even in his
relaxations.' Poor Guthrie had a terrible malady that preyed on his most
vital part continually--a malady that at last carried him off in the mid-
time of his days, and, like Solomon in the proverb, he took to a merry
heart as an alleviating medicine.
Like our own Thomas Guthrie, too, William Guthrie was a great angler. He
could gaff out a salmon in as few minutes as the deftest-handed
gamekeeper in all the country, and he could stalk down a deer in as few
hours as my lord himself who did nothing else. When he was composing his
_Saving Interest_, he somehow heard of a poor countryman near Haddington
who had come through some extraordinary experiences in his spiritual
life, and he set out from Fenwick all the way to Haddington to see and
converse with the much-experienced man. All that night and all the next
day Guthrie could not tear himself away from the conversation of the man
and his wife. But at last, looking up and down the country, his angling
eye caught sight of a trout-stream, and, as if he had in a moment
forgotten all about his book at home and all that this saintly man had
contributed to it, Guthrie asked him if he had a fishing-rod, and if he
would give him a loan of it. The old man felt that his poor rough tackle
was to be absolutely glorified by such a minister as Guthrie
condescending to touch it, but his good wife did not like this come-down
at the end of such a visit as his has been, and she said so. She was a
clever old woman, and I am not sure but she had the best of it in the
debate that followed about ministers fishing, and about their facetious
conversation. The Haddington stream, and the dispute that rose out of
it, recall to my mind a not unlike incident that took place in the street
of Ephesus, in the far East, just about 1800 years ago. John, the
venerable Apostle, had just finished the fourteenth chapter of his great
Gospel, and felt himself unable to recollect and write out any more that
night. And coming out into the setting sun he began to amuse himself
with a tame partridge that the Bactrian convert had caught and made a
present of to his old master. The partridge had been waiting till the
pen and the parchment were put by, and now it was on John's hand, and now
on his shoulder, and now circling round his sportful head, till you would
have thought that its owner was the idlest and foolishest old man in all
Ephesus. A huntsman, who greatly respected his old pastor, was passing
home from the hills and was sore distressed to see such a saint as John
was trifling away his short time with a stupid bird. And he could not
keep from stopping his horse and saying so to the old Evangelist. 'What
is that you carry in your hand?' asked John at the huntsman with great
meekness. 'It is my bow with which I shoot wild game up in the
mountains,' replied the huntsman. 'And why do you let it hang so loose?
You cannot surely shoot anything with your bow in that condition!' 'No,'
answered the amused huntsman, 'but if I always kept my bow strung it
would not rebound and send home my arrow when I needed it. I unstring my
bow on the street that I may the better shoot with it when I am up among
my quarry.' 'Good,' said the Evangelist, 'and I have learned a lesson
from you huntsmen. For I am playing with my partridge to-night that I
may the better finish my Gospel to-morrow. I am putting everything out
of my mind to-night that I may to-morrow the better recollect and set
down a prayer I heard offered up by my Master, now more than fifty years
ago.' We readers of the Fourth Gospel do not know how much we owe to the
Bactrian boy's tame partridge, and neither John Owen nor Thomas Chalmers
knew how much they owed to the fishing-rods and curling-stones, the
fowling-pieces and the violins that crowded the corners of the manse of
Fenwick. I do not know that William Guthrie made a clean breast to the
Presbytery of all the reasons that moved him to refuse so many calls to a
city charge, though I think I see that David Dickson, the Moderator,
divined some of them by the joke he made about the moors of Fenwick to
one of the defeated and departing deputations.
William Guthrie, the eldest son and sole heir of the laird of Pitforthy,
might have had fishing and shooting to his heart's content on his own
lands of Pitforthy and Easter Ogle had he not determined, when under
Rutherford at St. Andrews, to give himself up wholly to his preaching.
But, to put himself out of the temptation that hills and streams and
lochs and houses and lands would have been to a man of his tastes and
temperament, soon after his conversion William made over to a younger
brother all his possessions and all his responsibilities connected
therewith, in order that he might give himself up wholly to his
preaching. And his reward was that he soon became, by universal consent,
the greatest practical preacher in broad Scotland. He could not touch
Rutherford, his old professor, at pure theology; he had neither
Rutherford's learning, nor his ecstatic eloquence, nor his surpassing
love of Jesus Christ, but for handling broken bones and guiding an
anxious inquirer no one could hold the candle to William Guthrie.
Descriptions of his preaching abound in the old books, such as this: A
Glasgow merchant was compelled to spend a Sabbath in Arran, and though he
did not understand Gaelic, he felt he must go to the place of public
worship. Great was his delight when he saw William Guthrie come into the
pulpit. And he tells us that though he had heard in his day many famous
preachers, he had never seen under any preacher so much concern of soul
as he saw that day in Arran, under the minister of Fenwick. There was
scarcely a dry eye in the whole church. A gentleman who was well known
as a most dissolute liver was in the church that day, and could not
command himself, so deeply was he moved under Guthrie's sermon. That day
was remembered long afterwards when that prodigal son had become an
eminent Christian man. We see at one time a servant girl coming home
from Guthrie's church saying that she cannot contain all that she has
heard to-day, and that she feels as if she would need to hear no more on
this side heaven. Another day Wodrow's old mother has been at Fenwick,
and comes home saying that the first prayer was more than enough for all
her trouble without any sermon at all. 'He had a taking and a soaring
gift of preaching,' but it was its intensely practical character that
made Guthrie's pulpit so powerful and so popular. The very fact that he
could go all the way in those days from Fenwick to Haddington, just to
have a case of real soul-exercise described to him by the exercised man
himself, speaks volumes as to the secret of Guthrie's power in the
pulpit. His people felt that their minister knew them; he knew himself,
and therefore he knew them. He did not pronounce windy orations about
things that did not concern or edify them. He was not learned in the
pulpit, nor eloquent, or, if he was--and he was both--all his talents,
and all his scholarship, and all his eloquence were forgotten in the
intensely practical turn that his preaching immediately took. All the
broken hearts in the west country, all those whose sins had found them
out, all those who had learned to know the plague of their own heart, and
who were passing under a searching sanctification--all such found their
way from time to time from great distances to the Kirk of Fenwick. From
Glasgow they came, and from Paisley, and from Hamilton, and from Lanark,
and from Kilbride, and from many other still more distant places. The
lobbies of Fenwick Kirk were like the porches of Bethesda with all the
blind, halt, and withered from the whole country round about. After
Hutcheson of the _Minor Prophets_ had assisted at the communion of
Fenwick on one occasion, he said that, if there was a church full of
God's saints on the face of the earth, it was at Fenwick communion-table.
Pitforthy and Glen Ogle, and all the estates in Angus, were but dust in
the balance compared with one Sabbath-day's exercise of such a preaching
gift as that of William Guthrie. 'There is no man that hath forsaken
houses and lands for My sake and the Gospel's, but shall receive an
hundredfold now in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.'
But further, besides being a great humorist and a great sportsman and a
great preacher, William Guthrie was a great writer. A great writer is
not a man who fills our dusty shelves with his forgotten volumes. It is
not given to any man to fill a whole library with first-rate work. Our
greatest authors have all written little books. Job is a small book, so
is the Psalms, so is Isaiah, so is the Gospel of John, so is the Epistle
to the Romans, so is the _Confessions_, so is the _Comedy_, so is the
_Imitation_, so are the _Pilgrim_ and the _Grace Abounding_, and though
William Guthrie's small book is not for a moment to be ranked with such
master-pieces as these, yet it is a small book on a great subject, and a
book to which I cannot find a second among the big religious books of our
day. You will all find out your own favourite books according to your
own talents and tastes. My calling a book great is nothing to you. But
it may at least interest you for the passing moment to be told what two
men like John Owen, in the seventeenth century, and Thomas Chalmers, in
the nineteenth, said about William Guthrie's one little book. Said John
Owen, drawing a little gilt copy of _The Great Interest_ out of his
pocket, 'That author I take to be one of the greatest divines that ever
wrote. His book is my _vade mecum_. I carry it always with me. I have
written several folios, but there is more divinity in this little book
than in them all.' Believe John Owen. Believe all that he says about
Guthrie's _Saving Interest_; but do not believe what he says about his
own maligned folios till you have read twenty times over his _Person and
Glory of Christ_, his _Holy Spirit_, his _Spiritual-mindedness_, and his
_Mortification, Dominion, and Indwelling of Sin_. Then hear Dr.
Chalmers: 'I am on the eve of finishing Guthrie, which I think is the
best book I ever read.' After you have read it, if you ever do, the
likelihood is that you will feel as if somehow you had not read the right
book when you remember what Owen and Chalmers have said about it. Yes,
you have read the right enough book; but the right book has not yet got
in you the right reader. There are not many readers abroad like Dr. John
Owen and Dr. Thomas Chalmers.
In its style William Guthrie's one little book is clear, spare, crisp,
and curt. Indeed, in some places it is almost too spare and too curt in
its bald simplicity. True students will not be deterred from it when I
say that it is scientifically and experimentally exact in its treatment
of the things of the soul. They will best understand and appreciate this
statement of Guthrie's biographer that 'when he was working at his
_Saving Interest_ he endeavoured to inform himself of all the Christians
in the country who had been under great depths of exercise, or were still
under such depths, and endeavoured to converse with them.' Guthrie is
almost as dry as Euclid himself, and almost as severe, but, then, he
demonstrates almost with mathematical demonstration the all-important
things he sets out to prove. There is no room for rhetoric on a finger-
post; in a word, and, sometimes without a word, a finger-post tells you
the right way to take to get to your journey's end. And many who have
wandered into a far country have found their way home again under William
Guthrie's exact marks, clear evidences, and curt directions. You open
the little book, and there is a sentence of the plainest, directest, and
least entertaining or attractive prose, followed up with a text of
Scripture to prove the plain and indisputable prose. Then there is
another sentence of the same prose, supported by two texts, and thus the
little treatise goes on till, if you are happy enough to be interested in
the author's subject-matter, the eternal interests of your own soul, a
strong, strange fascination begins to come off the little book and into
your understanding, imagination, and heart, till you look up again what
Dr. Owen and Dr. Chalmers said about your favourite author, and feel
fortified in your valuation of, and in your affection for, William
Guthrie and his golden little book.